


The Reconciliation of Javert

by ClassicalOboist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Javert - Freeform, Les Mis AU, M/M, like really sad javert, sad javert, valjean - Freeform, valvert - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalOboist/pseuds/ClassicalOboist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert survives his fall from the Seine, is nursed back to health, and has a sappy reunion with Valjean as they find away to start their lives over again as a couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Everybody needs a Little Bit of Help, Sometimes

Standing on the parapet, Javert gazed down. Confused thoughts whirled through his head as he stared into the murky depths of the Seine. From there, he could not see the rapids, but he could hear their loud roar. He began to pace, his hands folded behind his back. Such a position was one of submission; once which he had not worn for decades. It was from a time he had pushed form his memory, but now, that was all that came back to him.

His mind raced as he thought about his last encounter with the convict, Jean Valjean. The ex-convict, now; Javert had let him go free. And why had he done so? The inspector shook his head. Before, he had only seen two ways of doing things, two answers to every question- one which was right, and the other, which was wrong. For all of his life since he was a prison guard at Toulon, he had marked Valjean as a bad man. And rightfully so- he had stolen, broke his parole, and committed highway robbery. Yet, through Monsieur Madeleine, he saw a different sort of man. At the time, and up until that moment on the parpet, he had believed that Valjean was simply a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was firm in his belief that men could never change. Though, if man were to stay solid in their convictions, why had Valjean let him go, at the barricades? And why, did Javert himself, let Valjean go in turn? If he so wished, Javert could have returned back to Rue de l'Homme Armée, and arrested Valjean once more- for good. But the ex-convict had saved his life, had showed kindness where it was not due. 

Could men change? Such thoughts had never crossed the troubled man's mind before. To arrest Valjean was bad for himself, as was letting him go. Javert saw only one other option, and that was the river that roared below him. He took a deep breath, walking to the police post. Javert entered, showing his card, and sat down to write. As he dragged his quill along the page, he was perfectly calm, focusing only on the task at hand. When he was finished, he left the instructions there and returned to the parapet. 

Returning to his troubled thoughts once more, Javert walked to the parapet and stood on it, the wind making him sway ever-so-slightly. The world as Javert knew it had been flipped on its head. Was there a new way of thinking- one that was neither right, nor wrong? Could it start out wrong, then eventually work itself out to be right? In Javert's mind, such declarations made little sense. Something that wasn't static, but rather, constant change, was unfathomable to the inspector. He placed his hat on the ledge and took in a deep breath, leaning forward and eventually going over the ledge.

Javert’s heart was pounding fast; the wind rushed by him, its noise filling his ears. Strong, hungry currents were soon visible in the water. Every sin he had ever committed in his life raced through his head, and he knew that this was the way that it had to be. Angry tides rushed closer, and the last thing Javert saw was the churning black water. As soon as he hit, the man was knocked unconscious, pulled under by his now-waterlogged uniform, one which he wore with pride just hours ago.

~

The first sensation Javert woke up to was that of sharp pains shooting throughout his whole body, and of a ringing in his ears. A searing pain raced up his arm and he felt far too heavy to move, as if he were weighed down by the weight of the river itself. Underneath his closed eyelids, the sun shone brilliantly, turning his vision crimson. It was then, after a few moments, that Javert became aware of his other senses once more. As the ringing died away, he could here the gulls that circled the Seine, crowing in the distance, and recognized the aroma of early Summer flowers that wafted to his nose. He tried to pick out the scents of the flowers individually in an attempt to take his mind off of the pain. This however, did not work. His head throbbed, each pulse sending fresh pain through him, making it hard to ignore. To Javert, it felt as if a man were hitting him over the head every second. The river had pulled off his coat and boots, leaving him cold, half-naked, and shaking in the mud. He placed his grimy fingers to his cheek, only to pull them away red and sticky, covered in blood.

Javert thought in astonishment; _Ho_ _w on earth am I still alive?_   Observing his surroundings from his grounded position, Javert could see mud lining the shore of the Seine for leagues; as far as his vision extended. The water itself was an ugly green-brown, reflecting the puffy clouds that floated by silently in the rich blue sky. The bridge from which he jumped was nowhere in sight. After much painful thought, he concluded that it was a second chance; a way for him to reconcile his misdoings. To him, this was the only answer that seemed logical. Men rarely survived the plummet into the Seine.

In an attempt to stand, Javert moved his legs tentatively, but the muscles convulsed, stiff from misuse and the chill of the water. He stifled a cry, biting down hard on his tongue. This action resulted in introducing the tang of fresh blood into his mouth. Despite all of his physical agony, what was hurt the most in Javert was his pride. He had chosen the most cowardly way out, and it had failed. He lay there, stripped of clothes and covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. For any of his colleagues to see him, he would be the laughingstock, the mockery; at the bottom again. Certainly this was the punishment that he was looking for. Hell would have been a treat.

As the sun glared down upon his face, it was at this point that he wondered how long he had been there. The waning tide lapped at his bare ankles, indicating that it was out, as he was also far from the street, where the civilians were walking. It was warm day in early June and local Parisians were most likely out for a walk, enjoying the warmth, completely oblivious to the man lying face-down in the muck and sand. Javert inferred, with great difficulty, that it was about noon. On what day, he wasn’t sure.

He began to swallow frequently in thirst. To Javert, this seemed like the worst punishment of all for being stuck in that one spot. As the sun trailed across the sky, the cool water of the Seine retreated from his ankles. Hunger fell upon him with the evening and he wondered if anyone would ever find him.

As Javert began to lose consciousness, a gentle, steady noise came to his ears. It sounded like feet running gleefully along the shore, knocking pebbles aside. This was soon coupled by cries of joy and laughter. Suddenly, he heard a gasp, and he saw small feet dressed in pink shoes racing toward him. It seemed to Javert to be a young girl, who had no more than ten years.

“Papa, come quickly!” the girl called worriedly.

“What is it, my darling?” a man’s deep voice could be heard from afar.

“There’s a man who is hurt!” the small girl came closer to Javert and knelt down, as if examining his wounds. Her face was shadowed with concern and fright.

Heavy footsteps moved hurriedly to where Javert’s body rested. With great effort, he looked up and saw a kind face, creased with worry. Javert’s vision began to blur, and his ears were filled with a great ringing.  
“....we’ll get you to the hospital...” the man’s voice seemed leagues away, almost in a far-off realm. Javert vaguely remembered being lifted by both the man and, in futility, the girl.

 ~

When Javert awoke again, his muscles were sore and aching. His head, chest, and side had been cleaned, then bandaged to stop the bleeding. Javert’s left arm was in a sling. There was a woman overhead, mopping his brow.

The girl who had found him on the shore was in the hospital room with him, and ran up to Javert from where she was sitting. “You are finally awake! I have been praying for you all week.” Her large, green eyes lit up with excitement, blonde hair bouncing on its curls.

Javert smiled, an exhausted, battered and unexercised smile, as he tried to hide his pain. It was not like Javert to smile, and so he rarely did. It was terrible, almost menacing. The smile was one used to smirk at convicts, or to instill fear into the hearts of first-time offenders. His smile was not one to be forgotten. It was not a happy one, forged by years of unhappiness. For what was there to be happy about? Thought it was all difficult for Javert to process, this young girl had saved his life. The man as well; but without her, he didn't know for how long he would have been lying there on the beach. That alone should have called for the utmost happiness; being given yet another chance at life. Yet all Javert could procure was a weak lifting of the corners of his mouth. He himself found it disgusting.

The girl introduced herself as Amelie. She had pale porcelain skin with a freckled nose. Her hair fell in curled, golden locks and she had eyes that glittered like gemstones when she spoke. The girl loved to talk. She told the story of how she and her father were out for a walk, as it was a fine day. Amelie was collecting shells, as she believed that the ‘fish with shells’ in the Seine were far more beautiful than the ones in the ocean. It was in doing this task, collecting shells from the shore, in which she saw Javert.

“Papa and I went to the ocean once. I didn’t like it. It was too loud and the water was too full of salt.” She told Javert all about how her and her papa traveled all across France. She explained in detail nearly every trip they had taken. Javert listened to Amelie’s stories patiently, unable to speak for himself. Before, he would have dismissed these stories as useless chatter, but now he saw that a person’s stories were all they could identify themselves with, once they were reduced to non-worldly objects. These seemingly meaningless tales were like some sort of treasure. She cherished each one and told each with passion blazing in her eyes. In this manner, stories were precious pearls. Amelie's were gleaming and polished, as if she told them often.

Finally, the man stood from where he was resting, putting his hands on the girl’s shoulders. “That’s enough, Amelie. We don’t want to bother him.” Dejected, Amelie walked off.

Standing before the door, she asked, “Papa, may I go play with my friends?”

“Of course, my dear. Just be careful.” He watched her go with love in his eyes. Javert blinked. He remembered seeing a look of that sort, a look of love, at the barricades. Saved from the grasp of death yet again. Sorrow lined his face as he thought of the barricades again.

“My friend, what troubles you?” the man picked up Javert’s hand and held it in his, looking sincerely into his eyes. His hands were strong yet supported, and power emanated from his very aura. Yet within his eyes, Javert saw genuine concern and sorrow. Javert would have recoiled from the strange man's touch, had he not been so injured.

Javert felt that this question was a ruse; an attempt to get him to talk, tell everything. He would not be broken so easily. He may have found compassion, however, he was still a member of the police, and he was still a spy. Javert knew this in his heart and did not answer. He had a duty yet, which had to be fulfilled...

A woman walked into the hospital room as the nurse was leaving. She had a bright blue dress that seemed to be the very definition of Summer and warmth, with deep brown eyes to match. Upon seeing the woman, the man looked into Javert’s eyes, as if saying, _‘We are going to talk about this later,’_ and turned to the woman, wrapping his arms around her.

“Louise, my darling, how I’ve missed you!” he gave her a kiss. Louise returned the gesture and then caught sight of Javert, sitting injured in the bed.  
“Jean-Pierre Dubois, who is this? I heard that you were in the hospital and I came as soon as I could. I was worried that you were injured, but now I see that you are fine.”

“Apologies, Madame.” The man, Jean-Pierre, turned to Javert. “This is our dear friend, his name we know not at this point, I’m afraid. He is in much pain and will not talk. It is alright, however, because I know that he will speak when he feels better.”

The words of Jean-Pierre changed something inside of Javert. He will speak when he feels better. This phrase is what resounded through his head. All his life, he had used force to get out of people what he wanted, and never considered that, instead of harassing them, he could have waited for them to confess in due time. Also, the man had used the word 'friend'. This struck Javert as odd. He had not spoken a single word, yet he was already a friend in Jean-Pierre's eyes. How could the man be certain that Javert was not some sort of criminal? After all, his uniform had been carried away by the river, and there was no way of telling what sort of man Javert was.

Jean-Pierre's voice dragged him out of his revere. He continued to Javert; “This is Louise, as you might have already heard.” He motioned towards the woman. “We are set to be married next month.” His eyes sparkled with joy. Louise glanced at the shining engagement ring on her finger, then back at her husband-to-be.

He showed no emotion at this declaration. For what was there to feel? Nothing. He was not happy for the couple, nor did the thought cross his mind to congratulate them. Javert saw marriage as unimportant, and he doubted that his thoughts on the matter would ever change. 

 ~

As the sun set, orange rays of light poured in through the window on the far side of the room. When Javert painfully moved his head to the side, he could see out the window, and watch Paris pass by peacefully. Without him. As far as anyone, save for the family that rescued him, knew, Javert was dead. The world would not have cared, perhaps some rejoiced. He did not want to be remembered in the manner of a merciless Inspector. Once he was back on his feet, Javert swore that he would make changes. But for now, all he could do was watch the world from a small window.

Louise and Jean-Pierre had gone home to eat, and Amelie returned to the hospital after spending the day with her friends.

“I came as soon as I could, monsieur! I wanted to make sure that you were alright.” The girl said sweetly. She walked up to Javert's bedside, sitting herself in a chair that was positioned near the bed. 

Javert could no longer resist- he knew had to talk at some point. The girl was looking at his with such hope, such- dare he say, veneration. It was impossible to deny her something as simple as how we was doing. It took a moment for Javert to form the words, and his voice was initially hoarse and cracked. He thought out each syllable carefully before uttering them aloud. “I, am doing well. Thank you.... for, for checking up on me, mademoiselle.” It was hesitant and rough, yet still sparked something within her.

Amelie was overjoyed from hearing his voice. Her eyes lit up, whether it be from glee or from the sunlight dying on the horizon, casting a glow on her face. To Amelie, Javert's voice was like a miracle in itself. Seeing this broken, desolate man finally acknowledging her through speech, was something overwhelmingly good. Seeing as he could now talk, the girl dared to ask, voice reluctant; “Please, monsieur, won’t you tell me your name?” her gallantry ignited a small flame in his spirit.

Javert paused for a moment, and looked into her hopeful face. He felt himself caving in under her gaze, bending at the power he felt there. “... Javert.” It was hesitant, but sure.

“Monsieur Javert! Thank you so much!” her gratitude was sincere. She wrapped her tiny arms around Javert’s neck, in the gesture of a hug. Javert tensed, unused to this sort of contact. When Amelie sensed this, she pulled away, giving a curt apology and leaving the room, though not without a small smile on her face.

Javert was awestruck. This gesture of appreciation and trust had been bestowed upon him. The hug was something he had witnessed many times before. It was mainly performed by individuals, whom, upon knowing that they would never see the light of day as a free man again, gave these hugs to their family, followed shortly thereafter by tears. Javert thought before that it was a petty attempt to play with his feelings, but he then realized that these emotions were genuine.

Criminals have feelings too. His mind, once more, lingered back to the last encounter with the convict, Jean Valjean. He had been carrying an injured boy from the barricades on his back, and requested assistance to help him return the boy to his grandfather. Being in Valjean’s presence, Javert felt oddly comforted. He realized this now, upon re-evaluating the situation. Javert forced himself to stop thinking about Valjean, as his mind roamed back to the barricades.  _He had every reason and opportunity to kill me, yet he didn’t. Why not?_  This last thought haunted him for the rest of the night. 


	2. In which Javert attempts to Walk again

Two months after Javert’s fall into the Seine, he had recovered remarkably well. None of his wounds became infected, and he healed fast. He credited Monsieur Dubois for generously supplying nutritious food so that he healed faster. However, for the first few weeks after he was admitted to the hospital, he woke up, yelling, from dreadful nightmares, drenched in cold sweat. These nightmares consisted of the bodies of the boys at the barricade, their eyes piercing and unwavering. He also had visions of falling into dark, evil waters once again. Yet still sometimes, the image of the convict Jean Valjean appeared before him, and he was both confused and somewhat upset at this. He could not understand why his very soul, where both dreams and nightmares were procured, had wanted him to see the face of Valjean so often. 

Javert felt a great sense of duty, and urgency in standing. He felt that being able to perform like a basic human being would be able to restore some of what little pride remained in him. Lifting his head, Javert looked around the small hospital room; a window, three chairs, and another bed, one which was always empty. Framed paintings of exotic flowers hung on walls covered in floral wallpaper. The wallpaper was yellowed and cracked, the lines like spiders' veins crawling up the wall. Javert averted his gaze from the ceiling. By the window, Louise and Jean-Pierre, now happily married, sat in chairs on the far side of the room. As Amelie saw Javert stir, she rushed over to him, as if surprised to see him awake.

"Monsieur, how are you feeling?" Amelie's tone was warm and her curiosity never failed to leave a slight grin on the man's face.

"I think," Javert started pensively, his eyes meeting Amelies', "I will try to stand today." He placed his right arm underneath him, pushing his torso into an upright position with great difficulty. Amelie held out her arm for support, ready to help Javert.

Javert nodded in gratitude towards Amelie, his blue eyes sparkling in appreciation. Javert pulled the covers off of his injured body, exposing his bare chest. As he moved, Amelie caught sight of his back. Before her, horrible, gory scars and welts revealed themselves. Some criss-crossed, others snaked, yet still more cut deep; procuring wounds which would never fully heal. Amelie’s eyes widened in shock surprise, and she stifled a gasp. 

“Monsieur Javert, what happened to your back?” her face was full of concern. Amelie was very mature for her age, and kept a calm, respectful tone. She made sure not to speak the words too loudly, as Jean-Pierre and Louise were sleeping.

Javert raised his battered right hand, a simple attempt to dismiss the question. “That is a story for another time.” Javert had a very quiet yet controlling voice. To Amelie, it seemed like his words could command anyone to do anything without force. She respected that. Javert appeared to be a very powerful, yet broken, man. She blinked away the thoughts, and went back to the task at hand; helping Javert to stand.

Dropping his feet over the side of the bed, Javert’s once-strong legs were as heavy and limp as clay before fired. As soon as the bottom of his foot touched the floor, it was met with sharp, prickling pain that shot up his leg. The sensation was like no other; somewhat akin to stepping on flaming hot coals without preparation,  travelling the length of his entire body. Javert suppressed a sharp cry and grabbed on to the bed tightly, gritting his teeth.

 _You’re as weak as a child!_ He scolded himself.

“I can help, Monsieur Javert.” Amelie said kindly. She was waiting still, dutifully. 

Javert replied in a calm tone; “My apologies, mademoiselle, but I do not want you hurt from my lack of self-control.” A fleeting thought raced through his mind. _Don’t apologize to those lesser._ Then he remembered again all that Amelie had done to save his life. If anything, Javert was the one who was lesser.

Javert gingerly stretched out his foot again, the skin of his largest toe brushing the old wood of the hospital floor. It stung just as much as the first time, but he took a deep breath and lowered the rest of his foot.  
Teeth clenched tightly together, he placed his second foot on the floor. His legs began to tremble, but Javert was determined. As soon as he let go of the bed for support, Javert’s knees buckled and he went crashing to the floor.

Cursing himself internally, he had to wait for Jean-Pierre to notice. Once again, Javert felt as useless as a gamin. A gamin, the kind of person that he used to be, only good for putting burdens on others. Yes, he felt that being able to stand upright was imperative to fulfill his duty as a police officer, or inspector. Jean-Pierre had woken up from all the ruckus that was produced, and had quickly identified the scene that had unfolded in front of him. He stood up from where he was sitting and walked towards the man on the floor.

“My friend, Javert, it seems as though you are not quite ready to stand.” Jean-Pierre picked up Javert, who was rather small, into his large arms. Javert felt himself being lifted up, no part of his body touching the ground. Javert trembled at the idea that he was in the air once more.

However, the fear was soon over, and he was placed safely in the bed, as if to make a point that he were not to attempt standing for the rest of the dy. He positioned himself upright for another time. “Thank you Monsieur.” He was ashamed that he had become crippled to the point where he needed another's assistance merely to get into bed. Javert bowed his head to the lowest degree possible. Pain reigned supreme inside his body once more, and he was embarrassed to have fallen so easily.

Amelie walked to his bedside once more. “I thought you did a great job,” she whispered.

This remark made Javert smile. Even this small girl’s petty encouragement seemed to make all the difference in the world. Javert had never had anyone in his life who had ever believed in him, let alone genuinely cared for him. The realization that he had just come to led him to believe that the world was, in truth, a very good place. He had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In a few days' time Javert would try to walk once more; an action which he had so often taken for granted.

 ~

His second try was a success. Days later, with Jean-Pierre standing by watchfully, Javert managed to stand. His legs still shook, nearly unable to bear the weight of his body after such an extended period of time, and he held both arms out straight, ready to grab something lest he fall. His arms teetered back and forth through the air, flailing about uselessly when he felt as if he were in a perilous situation.

But Javert did't fall, and this made him feel better about himself. After a few steps, Javert truly believed that any wound could eventually be healed, and he yearned for what his new future could bring.

~

"How are you feeling, Monsieur Javert?" A distance voice cut through his slumber, and the real world crashed upon him, bombarding him with sounds, scents and light. Javert awoke to Jean-Pierre's kind face looming over his, and immediately felt safe, though somewhat put-off.

"Like I fell into the Seine." Javert replied groggily. His face was stone and he showed no reaction to the witticism he had only just portrayed. His left arm was no longer in a sling, but he was still pale and covered in bruises He felt no need to be happy, and wanted to get back to being an Inspector as soon as possible. However, he knew that his biggest task was to convince the police that he was not dead, and this battered, injured, naked man was once high-ranking. 

"You are welcome to stay with us at our home until you are fully healed," Jean-Pierre and Louise were packing up the objects that they had taken with them to the hospital while Javert was injured. Javert was still amazed at how these people had put their lives on hold for him _._  He, who, before the incident, despised people of their kind. Though it seemed hypocritical, as he was once in their situation, he had always known that each man should be held accountable for their crimes, no matter what their class. The financial stature of a man did not reflect the stature of his heart. Poor men could be kind, yet others could be born with the blackest of hearts. The same applied for men of wealth. Javert knew that this was only fair, however he held a special place of hatred within him for the beggars on the street. These were the ones who did no work; simply begging for sous in order to make their way to the end of the week. His mother was this kind. A fiery hatred ignited in his very soul towards his mother once more. She had born him unto this sorry, corrupted world. 

Javert regained his composure, throwing himself back to the present, where Jean-Pierre's face was only centimetres away from his.

"If it is not too much of a burden... sir. It would be much appreciated if I were to spend a few days at your residence." Javert had a hard time saying the word  _sir._ He had changed exponentially in the previous two months, but addressing someone below him as if that man were above him was something Javert had trouble coping with just yet. He still felt that he had worked hard for his title and needed to be respected in that regard in the very least. It could have also been the fact that he felt somewhat intimidated by the proximity of the man's face. Javert was only a small man, resting at the height of one hundred and fifty centimetres, who only had his voice to instill fear into the hearts of murderers and thieves.  

Although he went  through such a rapid transformation, he found himself still referring to people in levels, classes or ranks. It was how he had been taught to deal with the real world.  _Respect the ones above you and pity the ones below you._ Such a message had been drilled into his head since the early days as a prison guard in Toulon. 

As Javert's mind wandered back to Toulon, it also found its way back to Jean Valjean. The convict that only deserved to be given peace. As Javert thought back, he could only now imagine the kind of living Hell he put the poor man through. Escaped convict, whom had also committed highway robbery and theft, had only truly taken a piece of bread and a forty sou piece. Nineteen years of hard labour and a lifetime on parole in prison didn't seem fitting, and Javert knew now. He felt sorry once more for what he had done, and was surprised by this. Each time Valjean's name echoed through his head, he felt his heart beat a little faster, if only by a bit, and felt an indescribable twinge in his stomach. 

Displeased with himself, Javert was snapped out of his thoughts by the tug of a small hand on his shirt. He had requested the shirt from the nurse so as to cover his scars. He looked down to see Amelie. The girl was holding up a powder-blue tailcoat, one to fit Javert's small size perfectly.

"I thought you liked blue, so we bought you this." Amelie smiled, presenting the coat to Javert.

Javert was deeply touched by this gift and accepted it thankfully. "How curious it is, that you should know that blue is the colour I adore the most." Taking the coat into his hands, he slipped on the coat and began to button it up, each brass button shining in the dawn's early light. After each button was properly done up and adjusted -for Javert had a knack for things that were orderly- he noticed that there were a pair of shiny black leather shoes by the bedside.

"Madame and Monsieur Dubois, I can assure you that all of this is really not necessary. I shall pay you whatever is due for these precious items." Javert felt embarrassed that these people were paying for new garnets for him, when he could easily afford them and they could not.

"Not to worry,  _mon gars_. You are quite deserving of these articles and you need not worry of the cost." Jean-Pierre was a very kind man, Javert thought. However, no debt must go unpaid. No matter how much change Javert went through, that moral would always stay the same. He planned to repay the man as soon as he was able, in any way possible. The last thing he wanted to be was indebted to yet another man. It seemed to Javert that the kindest people, and the ones the most provident in their wealth were the ones who gave it away most. This was curious to Javert, and he wondered how much better Paris would be if the wealthy were more generous with their riches. 

 ~

For the first time in two months, Javert stepped outside. The bustle with which he was once accustomed to now seemed foreign and strange. He saw the people in a different light, and wondered about their stories. He wondered, what choices, by either themselves or their predecessors, led them to where they were today? This sort of mindset changed once again how he saw the world. Instead of a black-and-white view of life, he soon saw the quilted fabric of culture, heritage and personality. To him, this concept was far more fascinating.

During the walk back to the house of the Dubois, Javert had a habit of people-watching; staring blankly at people until they gave him odd looks and walked away.

Then, finally, after quite a long walk, one which had tired him out thoroughly,  they arrived at the house.

The sight of it made Javert shudder. It was old, dilapidated and crooked. The windows were missing shutters and the door was nearly off its hinges. Javert swallowed the pity rising in his chest. Then he recollected the dark memories of his childhood, and how he was worse off then. Javert decided to be appreciative. 

"Papa, how long can Monsieur Javert stay with us?" Amelie asked Jean-Pierre excitedly. 

"As long as the man wishes. But remember, young mademoiselle, he no doubt has an occupation and a family to get back to. Isn't that right, monsieur?" Jean-Pierre looked into Javert's eyes, and Javert nodded silently. He didn't know if he had either of those things, now. Once the police saw that Javert was no longer at his job, it was likely that they assumed he had been killed in the barricades. No doubt they had another young man eager to fill his place.

Jean-Pierre produced an old, grubby key made of brass from his pocket and held it to the doorknob. As he turned the key, the clanking of the lock's mechanisms were heard from where Javert stood, many metres away. He pushed the door open with a loud creak to reveal an old, dusty, scantily-furnished room. This brought back memories of his own first apartment; he had scraped up just enough coins for a month's rent in an old, shabby apartment before becoming a member of the prison guard at Toulon. Even then, he had worked hard to maintain a decent wage.  However his flat had gone unfurnished for months, having only a thin mattress to sleep on and a cupboard for food and dishes, both of which he had very little. Javert cringed, trying to forget once more, and stepped inside after Jean-Pierre, Amelie and Louise.

 


	3. In which Javert realizes the Power of Stories

Javert opened his eyes once more into poverty. For the past few days he had been sleeping on a bed of hay. The dried straw poked into his back and nearly reopened some of his deeper wounds, but he managed to remedy this by covering the hay with his uncomfortable and itchy woolen blanket. It had been spun coarsely and dyed a bright, blood red. Seeing this colour had brought back traumatic memories, and he wondered if he could ever stand the sight of blood, or anything blood-coloured, for that matter, again. 

He soon found, however, that getting used to this colour was not so difficult, after all. For once, it was something that he had been accustomed to all of his life, and therefore saw it foolish that he could be so perturbed after one event. Since this blanket was his sole cover, he slept oft without anything on his back. It was a decent situation for the time being; late August was still quite warm. His fear was for the colder months. Perhaps he would be healed by then -this was most likely the case- and thus decided to put it out of his mind.

Javert noticed that, more and more, he began to put an increasingly larger amount of things out of his mind. Visions from the barricade, from the prison, from the Seine- all of it. He wagered that, perhaps, there was a reason why his soul had wanted him to remember these events so desperately. His mind lingered back to Amelie, when he first arrived in the hospital. Her tales were so magnificent; told from a child's point of view. The way that her soul shone through her eyes was something that Javert had desperately needed to keep his spirits up. Her liveliness had restored some of his own.

Did this mean, perhaps, that stories had a healing power of some sort? Javert could not call it a 'power', per sé, but the telling of legends, and the telling of them well, was a gift given by God himself. He felt sure on this, as he had felt sure on many things before. Javert was a very decided man; once his mind was made up, little could be done to change it.  

Thinking back, for the hundredth time that day, he remembered nearly every detail of the stories which that small girl had told. He could see them, the places she was describing, as if he had been there himself. This type of imagery was amazing. Javert prided himself in his abilities to paint. He did it often in the days of his youth, but this seemed different. With painting, one was forcing the image upon another, an image which only the artist could see. The viewer had no choice but to look at it in this way. Nonetheless, the way Amelie used words to her advantage- was like painting in a sense. Except, the listener himself could choose the palette, the size and vibrancy of the painting. This had all dawned on Javert in the brief time that he had been lying there, facing the ceiling wordlessly.

When Javert finally decided to stand up, he hobbled over to the nearest mirror. It was covered in splotches of dirt and cracked in the corner. When he saw his own face, he was taken aback. Javert, once so well-to-do, nearly clean-shaven and always proper, did not recognize himself. Staring back at him was a world-weary, sickly man with a pale grey face covered in marks and frown lines. He had always made sure to keep his beard as close to his face as possible; akin to stubble. However, he now had a scraggly beard of considerable length. Grey hair accented the edges of his brown beard. Dark circles lined his eyes. This man was not Javert. He touched his face, as if not believing. Sure enough, the reflection did the same.

Stiffly, Javert walked to the windowsill, where he kept a pail of fresh water from the well. He splashed some of the icy drops on to his face; for leaving it out overnight cooled it. In doing this, vigour was restored in Javert once more, and he felt as though he had the strength to make it through the day. This in itself was reassuring to him. However, Javert knew not how he could spend his day; confined to this house, with its two floors and five windows. Perhaps, he thought, he could sit by one of the windows for the majority of the day. Whilst not sounding far too appealing, Javert knew that it would stop him from scolding himself for doing nothing. After all, watching over gamins was his duty, and these streets were full of them. Though he was incapable of apprehending them, he decided to learn their ways in order to make his policemanship more effective in the future.   

Javert heard the front door open, then close powerfully. This made the floor rumble. He could hear Jean-Pierre's booming voice from down the stairs, greeting his wife and child. Louise had been kind enough to cook him a meal, while Amelie had taught herself to sew, based on watching Louise from many times before. At the time of her father's arrival, she had been attempting to sew together a doll of her own, as she had none.

He often wondered about Jean-Pierre. The man seemed to know so much; and seen even more. He was very wise in every regard and Javert respected him. It just struck Javert as odd that someone could possibly have so much room in their heart for the amount of love and compassion that he had shown.

Javert suddenly felt a longing to hear this man's story. He did not know why; hearing the story would change nothing. Whatever this man's life was before, it had happened in the past and was no longer changeable. So, Javert wondered what closure he could possibly get from hearing about another man's troubles. 

Reluctant, Javert decided that his question would have to wait until another time. He gazed absentmindedly out of the window, all the while happy voices from the first floor resounded throughout the house. It was once more that he came to the revelation that the world would go on without him just fine, as it had before.

 _Perhaps,_  the voice inside his head found its way back to him and thought _, a life of solitude would work well for me._

He quickly shook the ideas from his mind. If he wanted to be alone, then he would have stayed on the streets; a grubby, filthy street urchin with rags for clothes and missing teeth. He had always dreamed of something bigger, something more than the blow of his master's hand or the lash of the whip. He wanted to voice his opinion without being punished. For once, he wanted to be  _heard._ To Javert, becoming a prison guard, then later an Inspector, seemed like the most logical route to go. Upon thinking this to himself, this fresh idea and a new take on his past, he felt for once that it would sound much better coming from the mouth of a person. He wanted this story known, to rid himself of ill feelings and to bestow knowledge upon others. It was, in this fashion, that Javert picked up the odd habit of talking to himself aloud.

The sound around him seemed to fade away as he began to form the words of his own tale, the very story of how Javert became the sorrowful, broken man that he was.

 


	4. In which Javert Feels Indebted

The days which followed were long, filled with hours of staring out the window pensively. From time to time, Javert would hear light footsteps run up the stairs, only to find Amelie standing behind his shoulder, waiting with excitement.

"Monsieur Javert? Can we play a game, please?" the girl asked one day. She was still rather shy towards Javert, talking to him with the utmost respect. She seemed to know that Javert had once been a very important man. In her eyes, he still was. Her face appeared soft from the light streaming from the window, rosy cheeks glowing with health, and her eyes were deep and hopeful.

Javert turned from his bent state, huddled by the window. He looked at her in confusion, his once-bright blue eyes clouded and distraught. "What kind of game?" Javert's tone was that of a puzzled, lost man. His eyes was distant and his eyes never met Amelie's. 

Amelie hesitated, seeing the look on Javert's face. Nevertheless, her mood perked up and she stood erect before him. In a proud voice, she said, "I propose that you, Monsieur Javert, go with me, Mademoiselle Dubois to the field to pick berries!" There was a small flat of land, hardly a field, a few blocks away from where Amelie lived. There were around five or six raspberry bushes that had been planted on this flat. Javert knew that most of the berries would have been picked over at this point, meaning that the berries that were left were most likely browned and rotten from sitting under the sun for a couple of months. 

However, despite the unlikelihood of berries currently growing on these bushes, and the physical agony it would cause him to walk such a distance, Javert could not stand to break the young girl's heart. Nonetheless, he wanted to see just how much Amelie wanted to go to the field. 

"You call that... a game?" Javert continued to act confused, but it was nothing more than an act. Deep down, he really did want to walk to the field with Amelie and pick berries. Her gaze was so hopeful and uplifting that it filled him with light.

Amelie saw right through Javert's attempt at bewilderment and a small smile crossed her face, revealing yellowed, yet somehow still dainty, teeth. She hugged him with glee. Javert's muscles tensed at the contact, but he forced himself to relax.

"Please come with me, Monsieur Javert!" Her voice was mocking, yet there was a sense of urgency in her tone. These words melted Javert's heart and he finally caved in. The haze which had clouded his eyes had finally seemed to disappear, and it was as if something heavy and burdening had been lifted off of his soul. With the girl's hug, he felt as if his world had changed yet again, in some sort of significant manner, one which he could not seem to place quite yet.

"I suppose that if it is what Mademoiselle wishes, then I shall go," Javert concluded. Amelie unwrapped her thin, frail arms from around Javert's neck and she ran for the stairs, combing her fingers through her hair and pushing down her ragged skirts hastily. 

" _Papa! Maman! I'm going with Monsieur Javert to the berry field!_ " Javert could hear Amelie call from the bottom floor out to the backyard where Jean-Pierre and Louise were working in the garden. Jean-Pierre had purchased some exotic flowers from the New World, which he was rather excited about. Louise was watering the parched soil The constant dripping noise of the watering can was somewhat soothing to Javert.

"Alright, dear." Jean-Pierre's tone sounded distracted. Indeed, he was enthralled in planting the late Summer blossoms. Gardening was a task which he did fastidiously. He seemed not to care that his only daughter was going to a field on her own with a man whom they hardly knew; Jean-Pierre was a very trusting man. Javert often thought that this trait would be the man's downfall.

 

~

"Monsieur Javert? Am I walking too fast?" Amelie was several paces ahead of Javert. He was lagging behind, walking with a odd gait that resembled a limp. With each step, his stiff muscles seemed to creak and groan, but he forced himself to push through, silently cursing to himself for being so weak.

"I-I'm fine, Amelie. You go on ahead. I will catch up, I promise." Javert's voice was quiet as he struggled to maintain his calm.

"Monsieur Javert, you know I could never possibly leave you!" she stood, turned towards him, until he was a mere metre away from her. When Javert was close enough, they continued to trek on.

Soon, the flat of land was in sight. Amelie became excited. "Do you think we'll get a whole basket full?" she asked. She glanced down at her woven basket hopefully. "Maybe Maman will make us some pie!" Amelie was bubbling and overflowing with questions, and what the raspberries were to become. While she was naming baked goods aloud, Javert let his mind roam. No matter how hard he tried, Javert's subconscious always seemed to drift back to the prison at Toulon. Then to the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and finally at the house of a certain Monsieur Gillenormand. Each memory contained the face of one man; Jean Valjean.

As he walked in his painful daze towards the field, closely following Amelie, Javert could not get visions of the thief, the _escaped convict_ out of his head.  His mind had once filled with self-hatred for letting a man roam free as if he were an innocent, but he realized that these feelings were only towards himself, and he harboured no ill-will towards the man with the number of 24,601. 

Javert snapped out of his trance-like state as the cobblestone on which he was walking changed to soft, warm grass, still sprinkled in dew. Amelie ran to the nearest bush, legs flailing wildly beneath her. On her way to the bush, she slipped several times, but managed to right herself each time before she fell. Before long, Amelie was at the bush, greedily picking off the choiciest raspberries and throwing them into her basket. Out of these, she ate the less-desirable ones.

When Javert caught up to Amelie, he asked why she was saving the nicer berries. She held up the basket to his face. "Monsieur Javert, I noticed you were not eating with us, and I was worried. I wanted you to come with me so that we could eat!" she peered around the basket with her familiar hopeful smile.

Javert hesitated. Over the past few days, he had been trapped in his pensive state and did not realize that he needed to eat. Restraining himself, Javert reached into the basket and pulled out one raspberry. It was plump and red, and shone under the light of the midday sun. It was still cool with the dew that rolled off of it. He placed the berry in his mouth, and let the fuzz tickle his throat as he crunched the seeds. As odd a sensation as it was, Javert felt relieved to be eating food that consisted of something different than soup or bread.

For the rest of the day, Javert sat and watched Amelie collect berries from the bushes. Her laughter echoed across the open space, and her enjoyment seemed only to increase as the sun trailed lazily across the sky. Perhaps, he finally thought, all of the visions he had been having of Valjean had been for a reason. Javert sat, pensive once more. The sky began to turn a fiery orange, quickly fading to red then a pale pink.

Amelie ran up to Javert with her basket filled to the top with raspberries. "Monsieur Javert, may I go home now?" she asked sweetly.

Javert stood, his joints popping and cracking. "Of course. You lead the way," he replied with a wince. Javert followed behind Amelie in silent agony until they reached the Dubois house once more. Javert and Amelie both thanked each other; Amelie for his presence and Javert for hers. At that point, it seemed like a day with one another was what they each sorely needed.

Javert took his repose and, after taking a sip of water, nearly fell into his bed. As he lay on his side, resting uncomfortably on the straw, he pondered his day. _It seems_ _,_ he concluded,  _I was meant to find Jean Valjean after all._

 ~

For the first time in over a week, Javert decided to go downstairs and eat breakfast with the Dubois family. After his walk with Amelie the previous night, he felt that his bond to the family was even stronger. When he walked down the stairs, Louise, Amelie and Jean-Pierre were already seated, about to commence. Expressions of surprise flashed over the faces of each as they exchanged joyful glances.

"Ah! Monsieur Javert! Shall you dine with us on this fine morning?" Jean-Pierre's voice was too cheery, it seemed to Javert. The man's constant happy demeanor unnerved him to a certain degree. What Javert saw could hardly have been called 'dining'. Each of the family members at the table had a plate resting in front of them, half a piece of cheap bread upon each. Upon seeing the bread, Javert couldn't help but think of a certain bread thief that had come to mind quite often as of late. He paused for a moment.

"Er, yessir. Indeed. If it is permissible, I would very much like to...  _dine_ with you." Javert forced himself out of his thoughts and stammered out the sentence. His cheeks reddened for a moment and he quickly glanced down at the floor, before looking at Jean-Pierre once more. 

Jean-Pierre laughed and slapped his knee. The noise made Javert jump, thus adding to his embarrassment. "My boy! Do not be so jumpy! You must learn to toughen up." Jean-Pierre seemed to find the whole situation amusing. This made it even more awkward for Javert, who was standing on the stairs, frozen in mid-step, humiliation turning his face a bright red.

"Perhaps I should I back to bed..." Javert said meekly, inching his way back up the stairs. He would have rather fallen asleep on the incommodious bed once more than to embarrass himself another time in front of Jean-Pierre.

"Nonsense! Come, I saved an extra piece of bread for you." Jean-Pierre looked at Louise and she hurriedly stood up, fetching the extra piece of burnt bread that had been resting on the counter top. She grabbed a chipped plate and placed the bread on it.  

Javert walked slowly and sheepishly towards the table, when Amelie was eating quietly. Louise had put the bread on the table, in front of an empty chair. Javert sat down silently and began to lift the bread to his mouth. He had not eaten in this fashion for a while; next to starving on mere scraps. Once again, he looked down at his new clothing and wondered what Jean-Pierre had sacrificed just to purchase a tailcoat and shoes for him. While he was thinking all of this, Jean-Pierre was talking boisterously; laughing and carrying on in a loud fashion. For yet another time, this made Javert feel uncomfortable. There was just something about it all that somehow seemed wrong. A man, who had so little, was always so cheerful. What made him like this? In a way, Javert yearned to know, but another side of him told him that he should not know. The old Javert.

Thus he realized that he went on in the matter of referring to 'new Javert' and 'old Javert'. When these beings became separate entities, he knew not. He thought it abominable that he should that he had changed so much to the degree where he was an entirely different person. He was not worthy of such distinction of the time before the fall into the Seine. 

~

For the first time, Javert felt like he had to sneak out of the house. He wasn't one for doing things not considered correct; one does not usually escape the house of their hosts. The mere idea sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, and brought sweat to his palms. To be truthful, Javert had wanted to escape in order to return to his home; if only briefly. He was starting to get strange feelings about Jean-Pierre and the Dubois family in general, yet he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what it was that made him uneasy. It was Javert's plan to return to his home, collect the money which he owed to the Dubois, and then pack up the following morning. To him, it seemed like an absolutely flawless and considerate idea. He didn't want them to see him leaving, thinking that he was going without paying; yet he couldn't tell them that he was leaving only to get money, either. They would never let him, not in the condition that he was currently in.

But this wasn't as easy as it had originally seemed. The floor, as Javert was already aware, was quite old and creaky. The wood was molded in places, and lice had gotten to others. It was a challenge to merely walk around on tip-toes, not to mention Javert still had a slight limp. Javert knew that the stairs would be worse. He only hoped that the family was a trio of heavy sleepers. If not, it didn't matter to Javert anyway. What he was doing wasn't breaking any rules, it just was not polite. 

Unaccustomed to sneaking around, Javert trembled somewhat nonetheless. He managed to slip down the stairs with little difficulty and next to no physical pain, but with much time. He perspired as the seconds, then minutes passed. It took him well over an hour to get silently to the front door. As Javert exited the house and closed the door behind him, he felt proud of himself. He had done much walking during the day to ensure that his legs would not be stiff by the time night fell, and this had worked. He hoped that his legs would still last until he made it to his residence. He began to walk the streets confidently, in an attempt to scare off the thieves that lurked in the nights.

After a couple hours of wandering about aimlessly on the warm August evening, Javert had finally found his bearings. Looking up at the sign illuminated in the dim glow of a street light, he felt his hopes flickering in the same way. After another hour of following increasingly familiar streets, he stopped in front of his house. Javert was suddenly overcome with the utmost delight and, despite his severely aching muscles, he walked the final stretch to the side door of the house. Exhausted, Javert rummaged for the extra key which he had placed under the soil in a flower box of a long-dead plant.

He pulled out the grubby key with a numbed sense of victory, exhaustion making him somewhat giddy. He struggled for a few minutes attempting to insert the key into the lock, until finally managing to open the door. It glided smoothly on its hinges; Javert disliked the sound of squeaking, and thus made sure that every hinge was well-oiled.

He Javert walked inside, everything was neat, orderly and arranged; just as he had left it. It was silent, calm, and peaceful; as if nothing had ever happened at all. Overcome with emotion, most of which he did not even understand, he collapsed onto the floor in tears, eventually crying himself to sleep by the door.

 


	5. In which Javert Borrows a Horse

When Javert awoke, his vision was blurry. He was on his knees in the doorway of his own house. The muscles in his legs and back screamed in pain. He let out a dull groan in both agony and displeasure with himself. Looking up, he squinted his eyes as the bright morning light streamed through his open shutters. Outside, mid-morning birdsong could be heard. Javert cursed himself. He had not meant to fall asleep; simply collect the money and return to the Dubois house in the same night. Instead, he had fallen as a heap of man, cloth and tears on to the floor where had had lain dormant for hours. The poor family was mostly likely wondering where he had gone. Javert had quite a meticulous schedule and followed it to the letter. At this time, he would most likely have been out collecting fresh water from the well. 

Cursing again, Javert stood up. His joints popped and cracked into place, and he stretched skywards, emitting a yawn. He rose his hands above his head and the sensation was invigorating. Remembering the task at hand, he dusted off his nearly-soiled clothes, realizing now that he could change them. He walked up the stairs to his bedroom, and sighed in relief. Everything was just exactly as he left it; the bedclothes had not a single wrinkle, the floors hardly a speck of dust, despite his three month absence.

Walking over to his closet, Javert grasped the ornate brass handles and opened the doors. They, too, opened silently; and parted to reveal several suits and uniforms, and one set of nightclothes. This brought a smile to his face. Somewhere in his mind, he thought that he would be able to forget all that had happened in the previous months, and go back to living life as he had before. Yet another part of him still said that this was another mark on the canvas which was his life- one that could neither be covered nor erased, one which was there for those who dare look. 

Selecting his favourite uniform, Javert looked at it with a grin. It was a deep, royal blue with brass buttons in the shapes of fleur-de-lis. He had polished all of the buttons on his outfits before he left that day, and therefore they were brilliant and shining. He quickly shed his old clothes, bathed, then re-clothed into the uniform. Placing a hat on his head, he walked down the stairs, feeling back to himself once again. He then glanced at the safe where he kept his money- cunningly built into the staircase - and he quickly remembered the reason why he had returned in the first place.

Turning the dial on the safe back and forth was somehow therapeutic. He enjoyed the click that it made as he entered in the correct code and the door swung open. He looked at his savings with a sigh. He was neither impressed nor displeased with the sum before him. Money was of little object to Javert when he earned it honestly by fulfilling his duty. This was not all the money he owned, however; he kept most of it at a bank. Although, he felt that he should always have adequate money, lest something devastating and unexpected should happen. He pondered over how much money he should give to the Dubois. They were an overtly kind family, whom had graciously opened up their arms and accepted him. He felt like he should give them enough to at least improve their living conditions. After much thought, he pulled out three Louis d'ors and a five franc piece for the stable boy; for Javert knew that he was going to need to borrow a horse.

Pocketing the money, Javert also picked up his key and bid farewell to the house for another while yet. His face showed the chagrin of leaving it once more. He told himself he would be home no later than by the end of the week. Javert then began the short walk to the stables, where he would borrow a horse. The thought filled him with pleasure. He looked down at his blue greatcoat, black leather gloves, off-white pants and polished, gleaming boots and became elated. He hadn't worn such a nice outfit since-

The thought struck Javert again, like a knife in the chest. The barricades before him, once more, burning in his mind's eye. _Has this plagued me for all eternity? When will I be washed of my sins?_ Javert's thoughts were pleading. He forced himself to put it out of his mind, and in doing so, came the idea of Jean Valjean. When he was lost, this man's presence seemed to come to him, as if from God. He knew not where Valjean was, but he swore that their paths would cross again. 

Nearing the stable, Javert could already hear the neighs and whinnies of the horses, as they stomped their hooves proudly. This sound was comforting to Javert; it was something familiar that he had gotten into the habit of hearing, and only now did he realize how sorely he had missed those sounds. He soon saw the brilliant, glossy manes of the steeds and his eyes lit up. Horses were the one animal which Javert could stand- he held a special place in his heart for them, and he knew not the reason.

Javert removed his glove and placed it in front of the snout of a large, black mare who had a spotted white nose and proud, bright eyes. The horse's nose came into contact with the rough palm of his hand and he instantly felt her power. Her muscled rippled under her flesh and the sun glimmered off of her closely manicured coat in a million different ways.

A stable boy soon saw Javert and came up to him. He was only young, about eighteen, Javert guessed. He had mid-length blonde hair and _boutons_ in clusters on his face. His shirt was that of patchwork quality; sewn together with scraps of various fabrics.

"How can I help you today, monsieur?" the boy asked. His voice was pleasant.

"How much for this horse, for three days?" Javert's tone was low, calm and serious.

The boy seemed to sense that Javert meant business, and his face turned from cheerful to suddenly serious. "Why, for that one; she's our finest. No less'n a franc a day, I'll say." 

Javert pressed the five franc coin into the young man's palm. "Very well. Keep the extra."

The expression upon his face had no value. Eyes wide, he graciously pocketed the extra money and nodded silently, jaw hanging open. "Thank you very much, sir. I-I'll ready the tack." 

Javert found this action oddly uplifting. He used to only pay what was necessary, but the extra two francs would mean a lot to this boy and Javert could sense it. It hardly made any difference to him, seeing as he had used to make sixty francs a week.  _Used to._ The realization that Javert no longer had a position of employment troubled him deeply still. Perhaps, he thought, that they would accept him back as an inspector, back into the police. This idea didn't seem likely, however. He was fifty-two years old, nearing fifty-three, and they would never accept anyone of his age.

The rattling noise of tack clanking together brought Javert back to reality. Before him, the horse was saddled and ready to ride. "Thank you, boy." Javert said, his voice lacking the respect that he would give to his superiors.

The stable boy seemed unfazed, however, and merely dipped his head in gratitude. "Thank _you_ , messieur,"

Javert mounted the horse and examined the reins. Pleased, he gently dug the spurs into the horse's sides and she started into a light gallop. He directed the steed in the direction of the Dubois house, ready to show them the real Javert.

~

Javert paraded down the street proudly. A half-smile rested upon his now nearly clean-shaven face. He felt content once more, as the people of the street had to look up to see his face, which was shadowed still by his broad hat. His eyes were still tired and his brow mimicked that of one in distress, but he carried himself confidently and showed no sign of injury. After approximately half an hour, Javert finally arrived at the house that he was looking for. 

Sliding off the flank of the horse, he tied her up outside and rapped on the door. After a few moments, Amelie opened the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, and as soon as she saw the officers' outfit, he got down on her knees and clasped her hands together. "Please, monsieur! We didn't do anything, I can prove it!"

Javert was confused for a moment. He rested his gloved hand on her shoulder and she flinched. In a way, she reminded him of himself at his weakest point. 

"Amelie, my dear, it is I, Javert." Javert tried to keep his tone as calm and collected as possible. This girl's submission broke his heart, and he felt bad for frightening her. She looked up suddenly, in awe, as if not believing, and her eyes, swollen from crying, glimmered with joy once more.

"M-monsieur Javert?" Amelie could not stammer out any more than his name. She was embarrassed, shocked, overjoyed, yet still frightened, all at once. Still on her knees, she wrapped her arms around Javert's leg. "I'm sorry." she said quietly.

"Amelie? Who is at the door?" Jean-Pierre's voice was heard from the inside. Soon, he too was by the door, his large stature towering over Javert. Jean-Pierre recognized Javert almost immediately, and he gave a laugh. "I knew you'd come back. Here, you left this! Actually, we never gave it back to you. I found it in your pocket a while ago." Jean-Pierre produced a black rosary from his pocket and Javert's stomach dropped. Eyes wide, he looked at the object in the man's hands.

"What... how did- where? How?" Javert was so shocked that he could barely form a sentence. It was only now that he realized he had been missing the object so much. He looked at the rosary swinging from side to side in Jean-Pierre's hand. When Jean-Pierre only smiled and shook his head, Javert regained his composure. He stuffed his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the three coins which he had been saving for them. Amelie, now on her feet, looked at the coins in silent pain. She knew that this meant Javert would no longer be staying with them.

"This is for your hospitality. I thank you most sincerely, monsieur." Javert handed Jean-Pierre the Louis d'ors, equivalent to sixty francs. Speechless for the first time Javert had seen him, the man returned the rosary as he received the coins. 

"Javert, this really isn't-"

" _Inspector_ Javert." he corrected, straightening his hat. He stood up, quickly placing the arrangement of black beads into one of the inner pockets of his greatcoat. "I wish well for you and your family. I shall take my leave and I bid you farewell." Javert turned to leave, but Amelie grabbed his sleeve. Tears ran down her face once more, re-tracing the tracks that they had made earlier.

"Please, monsieur, you cannot leave! You are kind and intelligent and caring. You are like a best friend to me." Javert turned slowly to see that Amelie was sincere. As much as the thought of leaving her crushed him, Javert knew that it had to be done.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I must go. I have a duty to fulfill yet. However, we shall meet again. Do not worry- the world is a small place, full of surprises. If God intends for us to meet again, he will make it so." Javert's tone was as reassuring as he could muster, but he could not shake the feeling that he might be lying to both himself and the small girl. 

Amelie retreated into her father's arms, and Javert looked at Jean-Pierre for the final time. The large man's gaze was a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. Javert never did find out nearly as much as he wanted to about this mysterious, kind man whom had shown boundless and unfathomable happiness, and whom had also seemed content with what he had, earning just enough to supply his family with what was necessary and few luxuries. Javert tipped his hat and re-saddled onto the horse once more, untying her then departing.

As Javert was slowly making his way back to the stables, he contemplated the scene which had just unfolded.  _Amelie was so apologetic upon seeing an officer- is she guilty of a crime?_ Javert quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He had been with the family every day for three months; they had never acted out any criminal activities. Why, then, was she so worried upon seeing a policeman? Although Javert was still confused, he thought back to his initial reaction when Jean-Pierre had given him the rosary. Javert knew that his response was most likely over-dramatic; he had been so full of emotion that he could barely contain it. Again, he asked himself the question of why. The rosary had been given to him by Jean Valjean, when the man had been disguised as the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, Monsieur Madeleine.

At the time, the gift meant very little, yet he still found himself carrying the beaded necklace with him everywhere he went. As he took it with him wherever he went, he found himself increasingly attached to it. He found that this was the case even after he had discovered Jean Valjean's disguise. So many things were still confusing to Javert. He decided to put it all out of his mind for the time being. Promptly returning the horse, he walked back to his home and removed his boots. He sighed in exhaustion as he stared around his empty house; Javert had few furnishings, but the ones he possessed were ornate. He had an eye for detail and an eye for antiquities. The state of his house pleased him. 

After quickly dusting his house, Javert decided that it would be best if he slept. He would have the next day to sort things out and wonder what to do from there. As he sat on the bed, he marveled at how comfortable it was. He had been sleeping on straw for over a month, and the soft wool was a pleasant change. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep and was at peace with himself and the world, completely, for the first time in his life.

 

 

 


	6. The Fateful Florist

Javert was displeased with himself. Going about the interior of his house, he felt that it was bland. In a word; dead. He very much enjoyed seeing the exotic flowers that Monsieur Dubois had planted in his yard. They had added colour and interest to the garden. Javert did have flower boxes hanging under the windowsill of each window. They were once-blue, now faded and peeling. Javert had never gotten around to maintaining them -one of the few things that he did not- as blue paint was becoming increasingly expensive and harder to find.  The boxes themselves were all either empty or had old, dead plants inside of them. Thus Javert made the decision to purchase some flowers. He vaguely remembered that there was a florist within walking distance of his home. He had passed it every day on his way to work.

Upon thinking about his job, Javert came to the conclusion that it would be best to meet with the Prefecture of Police and say that, indeed, he was alive, and still very much able to fulfill his duty. If he arrived in uniform, they most likely wouldn't need any persuading. He was quite high-ranking at the time, for his class. He didn't mind working his way up again, to a certain extent.

Walking into his bedroom, Javert sat upon his bed, feeling something rattle and shift inside of his pocket. Reaching his hand inside, he pulled the item out to realize that it was the rosary. He had forgotten about it since the moment when Monsieur Dubois had returned it to him. Valjean had put it into his possession eleven years prior, when he was the mayor of Montrieul-sur-Mer and Javert, a newly appointed inspector. How foolish he had been then, coming to realize his suspicions about the mayor at an unfortunate time, making him look like an idiot when he was in the right. For this, Javert was frustrated at Valjean;  _Monsieur Madeleine_ , as they had called him in that epoch. Yet, Javert had to admit that he admired the man's will to live, to better himself and prove to Javert that perhaps, men could indeed be reconciled. 

Turning the rosary about in his hands, he pondered what he should do. He planned out his day quickly, starting with a trip to the florist, and then the Prefect.  He stood, walking to his closet, where he picked out his uniform that was the most decorated; it was a dark black velvet with several badges pinned on the right breast. He had earned them, and he was proud, but not because of the badges themselves, or what they represented. He was proud because it would put him in higher esteem in the eyes of his superiors, thus resulting in more opportunities for himself. Adjusting his cravat, he put on the uniform, turning around in front of his mirror. Javert was a vain man, and made sure that everything was just so. 

Making his way down the stairs, Javert walked over to the front door in sure, confident strides. He picked up his cap which hung on the coat rack decidedly. Placing it upon his head, he grasped the door handle and turned it quickly, pushing the door open into the dazzling light of the fresh, early September morning. Turning down the familiar road, he felt content once again, as if everything in his life had returned to normal. He, however, felt inside of him that he was a changed man, in many respects. To be shown such compassion and kindness that he felt that he had even deserved in the first place, what extraordinarily changing. All of his life, he knew nothing but hardships and loneliness. Still, he saw it as merely a break from his duty. As soon as he met with the Prefecture, he would assume his duty immediately.

Javert walked down the street with a renewed sense of purpose. At last, after months of healing, he was no longer an invalid, no longer one who needed the support of others. As he passed the florist, he couldn't help but stop and admire the flowers. They came in amazingly brilliant colours- some even, he thought, from the New World. He shook his head, chiding himself for callings the Americas the New World, still. It was something he had picked up from his childhood, from the uneducated inmates within the prison in which he spent most of his childhood.

A particularly colourful flower caught his eye. It was splendid- a brilliant pastel blue, with petals that drooped ever-so-slightly. The  _flora_ was, indeed, delicate and pure. It captivated the entirety of his conscious for the moment, and he reached up to touch one of the fragile petals. 

"Can I help you, monsieur?" A gentle voice sounded from behind him, calm and helpful.

Javert was pulled out of his moment of distraction and turned towards whomever had spoken. As Javert's eyes rested upon the speaker, he was rendered speechless. His expression was mirrored on the face of the other man, who had paused as well. Javert took a step backwards, as if not believing, eyes wide.

"J-Jean?" he stammered, bumping into the flower rack behind him. Standing before him was the man whose face had haunted his dreams. Haunted, but not in a bad way. No, in front of him, practically unchanged - if not, a little tired - was Jean Valjean. Javert, much to his own surprise, felt overwhelmed with emotion. "What are you- doing here?" He immediately blushed, realizing the stupidity of his question.

Valjean only smiled, the corners of his lips upturned gently, and surprise turning into joy within an instant. "Javert. How nice to see you again." He chuckled at the inspector's question. "I work here, now. It's just a side job, of course."

Javert searched the man's face for more answers. Was Valjean about to say more? Or was it Javert's turn to make a fool of himself? "I- yes. It certainly has been a while, hasn't it?" If Valjean wanted to play the game of pretending to be calm, he could do so as well.

Suddenly, their eyes met, and everything became clear. As they exchanged looks, it was as if they both knew that they had been on each others' minds. Valjean opened his arms, and Javert graciously accepted the hug. "I was hoping that we'd meet again," Javert said, his voice muffled in Valjean's clothes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is a WORK IN PROGRESS (WIP). It will be updated regularly but please be patient. Thank you. Please let me know if you find any typos or inconsistencies with Hugo's story. This is a post-Seine AU where Javert survives his fall.


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